


The Plan

by Deifire



Series: Eerie: Ten Years Later [13]
Category: Eerie Indiana
Genre: Black Friday, Future Fic, M/M, Prequel, Reunion Sex, Ten Years Later, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/pseuds/Deifire
Summary: Marshall's home for Thanksgiving break with something on his mind.Dash isn't sure he wants to know.Prequel of sorts to the Ten Years Later 'verse.





	The Plan

_Dash's Apartment_  
_Friday after Thanksgiving_  
_Marshall's Third Year of College_

Dash shuts the bedroom door and Marshall's practically on top him, kissing him deep. It's passionate, intense, yet not rough the way Dash has been anticipating. There's something unhurried about Marshall tonight, despite the way they're starved for each other. Something almost gentle.

Dash, who will take Marshall Teller any way he get him, isn't about to complain.

Marshall steps back when they finally come up for air, cupping Dash's chin in a grip that's almost a caress and tilting his head back to meet his eyes.

"Hi," he says, grinning.

"Hi, yourself, Slick." Dash might be smiling back a little as he says it, despite himself. He's not sure he wants to give Marshall even that much this early, but it's been a long time since last summer. The last time they were together like this.

He captures Marshall's lips to let him know he's through making conversation. They've done the small talk thing already. Dash has, in fact, just yesterday suffered through the chatter of an entire Thanksgiving dinner at the Tellers without getting into a fight with their son more than once, an evening of family togetherness he's still not willing to concede was worth it, even if it did end with six kinds of pie.

He and Marshall have better things to with their mouths right now.

They spend the next small while like that, just kissing, pressed up against the door and each other, hands roaming over flushed skin and clothes. Making out the way they used to back when they were younger and this relationship was still new to both of them.

Back when Dash hated himself for it a little more than he does right now.

It's at least a full twenty minutes before anyone's pants are even off.

Marshall's taking his time and Dash is content to follow his lead as they leisurely explore the familiar territory of other's bodies.

Marshall notes the changes, Dash can tell. His fingers linger over the scratches still left from Dash's encounter with a rompo last month while saving Simon Holmes from himself for the third time this fall, a favor for which he still has yet to collect. He takes the time to kiss around the cuts on Dash's palms and knees, those the results of a slight mishap while running away from the Eerie Cemetery and a business deal gone wrong that Marshall doesn't exactly need to know about.

For his part, Dash is careful to avoid the small injuries Marshall's sporting from this afternoon. Aside from that, Marshall's skin is no more marked than Dash remembers. He's a little paler than he was last summer. A little leaner, too, the angles of his body a little sharper. Not like Dash was back in the days of dumpster driving, but enough so that Dash wonders if he's been stressed enough he's forgetting to eat again, despite the food allowance Marilyn and Edgar send.

Marshall still knows what to do with his hands, though. And his lips. And his tongue. And his cock. It isn't long before he has Dash writhing underneath him.

Neither of them should have the stamina for this right now. Not Marshall, after a day of he and Simon helping his mom at the mall. Dash has had enough short-lived retail jobs to know Black Friday is exhausting, even in years when some shopper _doesn't_ summon a chaos spirit to help score a deal on big screen TVs. And not Dash, semi-professional con artist, for whom the biggest shopping weekend of the year is in many ways also his own busy season.

Marshall doesn't exactly need to know the details of that, either.

Still, Dash finds he's not even a little bit tired as Marshall brings him to the edge and nearly over, caressing and tormenting him for what seems like hours, until he's cursing, nearly screaming, stifling his cries into a pillow and against Marshall's shoulder.

It's not like he gives a damn if the neighbors in this latest illegal sublease hear them through the thin walls—in fact, he even relishes the though of putting on a show—but he does want to avoid disturbing Simon, asleep on the living room couch. Besides, the physical part of Dash and Marshall's relationship was forged in semi-public places, abandoned buildings, and Marshall's bedroom while his parents slept nearby. There's something about having to be quiet Dash finds almost a turn-on now.

Especially when Marshall presses a hand over his mouth.

It only gets more intense from there.

He's so close he's shuddering, not sure how much longer he can stand it, when Marshall leans down whispers, "Now." His voice is low, insistent, his breath hot against Dash's ear, and Dash hates himself a little more when he doesn't even try to resist the command.

He comes hard enough he swears he can see the distant stars to which he's never been allowed to travel.

Marshall fucks him through it, chasing his own release until he finds it and collapses, spent.

Dash holds him close then, until Marshall's breathing steadies and he raises himself up on one arm, wiping sweat-slick hair away from his forehead. Dash studies his face. He knows it well enough to spot the question written there. The one Marshall's spent tonight not asking.

Dash doesn't know what the question is, exactly, but he does know Marshall well enough to realize that he'll find out soon enough and probably regret it.

He closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the feeling of being full and sated—of being wanted—for as long as he can.

 

"I've missed this," Marshall says a small while later, when they're lying beside each other in the nest of pillows and blankets that passes for Dash's bed, both of them still inexplicably not sleeping. He grins that same infectious grin Dash couldn't resist earlier.

"Still can't find anybody to fuck on that whole campus?" Dash's tone is nonchalant, almost disinterested, and—he hopes—not betraying the effort it takes to keep it that way.

"Nobody I'd want to." Marshall's voice is all sleepiness and sincerity. "Nobody who's you." It's close enough to being an admission of…something that Marshall has to turn away even before Dash does.

"So I've ruined you for all others," Dash says, not looking at him. "Good to know."

He feels Marshall shift beside him.

"Maybe you have." He sounds like he might be considering it as an actual possibility, weighing the evidence for and against and arriving at a testable hypothesis. Marshall Teller lying beside him again, being Marshall Teller.

Dash will never admit how much he's missed _this_.

He doesn't look up as Marshall wraps himself around him, spooning up against his back. He allows this, letting Marshall get settled, then, just to be contrary, shifts and turns in his arms until they're once again face to face.

Somehow, he always forgets how blue Marshall's eyes are. Almost unreal. Like maybe he's the not-quite-human one in this relationship.

Dash should say something now, he knows. Get the talking part of whatever this is out of the way.

Instead, he brings their lips together.

They kiss for a while, naked in each other's arms. There's still passion in it, but no heat and no urgency. It's not long before they relax again, just holding each other and letting themselves be held.

Dash is on the verge of maybe almost being ready to fall asleep when Marshall finally breaks the silence. "How is he?"

It not the question that's been in his eyes all night, but it's close to it. _He_ means Simon. _He_ always means Simon. Dash knows this even without Marshall's significant nod toward the bedroom door. He rolls his eyes. "What do you mean 'How is he?' You've been hanging out with him nonstop for the past two days. You haven't found the time to ask _him_ that?"

"I know. I _have_ asked. But…"

Dash sighs. Part of him wants to make Marshall work for this, but the rest of him realizes he's tired and that tormenting Marshall in this mood won't be fun enough to make it worth the effort. "He's fine. Lonely sometimes, I guess. And somebody should really talk to him about trying to make friends with things in the Eerie Woods. But other than that, he's fine."

"Lonely?" Marshall's tone shifts to one of pure concern. "He told me he had friends on yearbook. And he's doing track again this year. Is he—?"

Dash waves a hand. "Yeah, he's still putting his photography and running from danger skills to use for the greater glory of Philip G. Zimbardo High. And he's still got friends. Or at least kids his own age he hangs out with sometimes. To be honest, he's still spending most of afternoons in your basement helping your dad in his secret laboratory."

"It's not a secret laboratory," Marshall counters. "Stop trying to make him sound like some kind of mad scientist. It's a workshop. Dad hired Simon to help build that home workshop he always wanted to have after Syndi and I moved out and—"

"Keep telling yourself that, Slick." Dash feels Marshall tense in his arms. "Don't worry. They're not doing anything down there that might blow up the neighborhood." Marshall starts to relax and Dash can't resist adding, "Yet."

"You're not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be. And Simon has people. The one thing he doesn't have right now is you."

"I know." Marshall's swallow is as audible as his guilt and when Dash looks at his face again, he's blinking a little too fast.

Suddenly, Dash can't feel any triumph at having scored that particular direct hit.

"Look, you want a report card or to know whether or not he's eating his vegetables, you're better off asking Marilyn and Edgar," he continues, trying to give Marshall something as penance. "Though judging from all the college test and admissions stuff I saw lying inconspicuously around your house, I'm guessing the kid's not doing too bad in school and Edgar knows that. I didn't know MIT made that many brochures."

It's Marshall's turn to sigh. "That's dad. College is really important to him, so he can't imagine it not being important to any of his kids. I keep telling him you and Simon are on a different path."

The feelings that remark invokes in Dash are too varied for him to process or even identify. He's decided he's pretty sure he needs to make Marshall pay for whatever he meant by that, though, when he hears him mutter something else.

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing. It's just you and Simon. You're both doing what you want with your lives. Like I should have been this whole time." Before Dash can correct that, he adds quickly, "Unless you think Simon wants to go to college. I mean, we both know he's smart enough to get into MIT or anywhere he'd want, and if he does, Mom and Dad will do everything in their power to help make sure it happens, but—"

Dash has to turn away and clamp a hand over his own mouth, he's laughing so hard.

"What?" Marshall asks.

"You," Dash answers, when he finally gets himself under control. "You don't trust your own best friend and so-called 'trusted associate' to tell you the truth about what he wants to do with the rest of his life—" Here Dash has to pause again to fight back another wave of cruel laughter. "But for some reason, you trust _me_?"

"I—"

"For fuck's sake, Slick. He hasn't changed his mind. He wants to be wherever you are. Doing whatever it is you do. Whither thou goest and all that."

"Fighting the forces of weirdness. That's what we do."

"Whither thou fightest weirdness then."

It's inevitable. As soon as Simon's old enough, he's leaving his terrible family to join Marshall in whatever paranormal quest he's on, and for the almost the first time he can remember, Dash will finally have both of them out of his hair.

The peace and quiet's going to be strange.

Marshall's quiet now. It's not a comfortable silence and Dash is about to make an excuse to squirm out of his arms when he speaks again. "What about you?" he asks at last. "What do _you_ want, Dash?"

Dash shrugs as much as he can in this position, resolving to find the strength to put a stop to this conversation and kick Marshall out of his room for the rest of the night. "The usual. Fame, fortune, great sex."

That makes Marshall snort. A smile briefly interrupts his serious expression. "I can give you one out three of those."

"Which one, the fame or the fortune?"

"You're impossible."

"Am I?"

And then Marshall's back to serious. "What about your past, though? Your memories?"

"What about 'em?"

"They weren't on your list."

"Don't need 'em," Dash lies. "Don't want 'em. I've given up on all that."

"I haven't," Marshall counters, managing to make it sound like a vow.

"Don't worry about it."

"But—"

_"Don't."_

Marshall doesn't respond, except to press a small kiss to Dash's forehead, which lets him know he's not planning on picking a fight about it tonight.

Still, it feels like the calm before a storm, a feeling which is only confirmed when the next words out of Marshall's mouth are, "I, um, promised Simon I'd talk to you about something before I left."

Fuck.

Here it is. Whatever's been haunting Marshall's eyes all night.

"What?" Dash asks. It comes out harsher than he intends it to. Harsh enough to make Marshall flinch. He loosens his embrace and Dash takes the opportunity to roll out of it, shifting away and propping himself up on one elbow once he's made some distance between then. He studies Marshall's face.

Those stupid fucking blue eyes are open wide. Marshall looks away long enough to wrap more than his fair share of the blankets around himself. His overall expression is one of such intense vulnerability that its all Dash can to do avoid lashing out just to prove he can.

"What if I came home?" Marshall asks.

Dash shrugs with one shoulder. "You want to go home, no one's stopping you."

"I mean, what if I _moved_ home? For good?"

Huh. That's a new entry in Marshall Teller's series of dubious life plans. Dash tries not to think about what it might mean for him personally to have Marshall back in Eerie as he responds, "I think Marilyn's going to be sad when she finds out she'll never be able to use the attic for anything more than a weirdness museum. Why?"

Marshall picks at some imaginary spot on one of the blankets. "Not back in with my parents. Just…home. To Eerie."

Dash stares at him. In all the years he's known Marshall, home has either meant Jersey or specifically, his parents' house. Never Eerie.

"Why?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"So you're giving up on finishing college, then?"

Marshall sits halfway up, shifting the blankets around him. He addresses a corner of the ceiling like he's trying to persuade an audience who isn't quite Dash. "I can't not finish college. I don't think I could do that to my dad. After coming this far, I don't think I could do that to myself. But I could finish early. It won't even be that hard, if I take a couple of extra courses these next two semesters and drop my zoology minor. I could be out by next December."

He turns toward Dash then, seeming to search his face for signs of…what? Approval?

"Why?" Dash asks again. It's not the most original of responses, but it's all he's got right now.

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, you hate it here. Remember?"

"But you were right."

Dash blinks and scoots away from the man beside him as fast as he can. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with Marshall Teller?"

Marshall smiles. "Today's secret code word that proves I'm the real me is 'banana.'"

It's the correct word. Dash knows this before Marshall even says it. None of the alternate versions of Marshall he's met since they've been intimate—none of the possessing entities, shape shifters, doppelgängers, or alternate universe twins—have ever been able to kiss like Marshall. He's damned sure they wouldn't be able to fuck like Marshall.

This is the real Marshall Teller.

Somehow, this is the real Marshall Teller, college Marshall Teller, finally-got-the-fuck-out-of-Dodge-like-he's-always-wanted Marshall Teller, calling Eerie home and telling Dash—

"You were right," Marshall repeats. "This is the center of weirdness for the entire planet. If me and Simon want to investigate the forces of weirdness for a living, Eerie's the place to do it. There's a market here big enough to support us without us having to go full Professor Zircon. It's the only home Simon's ever know. And my family's here, so I could keep an eye on them." He pauses, looks down, looks away, then continues. "You're here."

Dash snorts. "You're not serious."

He's lying again. He knows Marshall is as serious as a heart attack right now. He just isn't getting his hopes up. He doesn't trust Marshall not to change his mind between now and a year from December. This mood he's in right now is homesickness or some bullshit, complicated by sex, a day at the mall, and probably leftover pie.

He's heard Marshall complain about how much he hates Eerie for too many years to believe anything else.

"What if I am?" Marshall asks.

"So you're just going to move back here, and—"

"Move in with Simon. Start our own paranormal investigation business. That's the plan."

Dash scoffs. "Do you even know anything about running any kind of business?"

"Well, Mom taught me a lot. And Mr. Radford."

"Bartholomew J. 'I didn't pay my taxes for the better part of two decades' Radford? You're taking advice from that guy?"

"Yeah." Marshall shrugs. "Well, no. Not advice about taxes, obviously. But he's good at running the World O' Stuff. Plus, he knows everybody and everything in Eerie, so—"

"You'd be better off talking to Fred Suggs."

"Already did," says Marshall. "He's willing to help fast track a small loan in exchange for us keeping quiet about his real identity."

"The local government's not going to be exactly thrilled to have you back, Slick."

"I can handle Mayor Chisel. Well, Simon can. He'll be the one to interface with City Hall."

Dash raises his eyebrows. "You've put some thought into this."

"I have," Marshall affirms. "So has Simon. So what do you think?"

"You're asking for my opinion?" asks Dash, wondering if there's a polite way to phrase how much he's looking forward to watching all this go down in flames. He doesn't want Simon _too_ crushed when Marshall inevitably repeats it to him.

"I'm asking if you want in."

Oh.

Fuck.

He's serious.

And grinning again.

Dash can't think. Years of well-honed sarcasm have suddenly fled his consciousness. All he can come up with is, "Why?"

Marshall shrugs. He reaches out, takes Dash's hand, and brushes his thumb over the – mark on the back in a gesture that's somehow more intimate than anything they've done so far tonight. "Who better than you to help us monetize our paranormal quest?"

"One question," Dash fights to suppress all reaction. "What's in it for me?"

"Third of the profits?" Marshall offers, not even trying to negotiate.

Dash shakes his head. "This doesn't sound like the road or fame or fortune."

"It's probably not."

"What else?" Dash asks, running his fingers up Marshall's arm. He kind of regrets pulling away from their mutual embrace now, but also he's already decided he's not going to be the one to re-initiate it first.

Marshall slides closer and takes Dash's hand it in his. "Well, when we're living together, we can do more of this."

"Have pointless conversations?"

"I was thinking the sex, but have it your way. Besides, rent's cheaper split three ways. We can get a bigger place. We already know we can share a bed, so—"

Dash fixes his eyes on the same corner of the ceiling Marshall was addressing earlier. "So instead of sleeping with you for free, you want me to pay money to sleep with you?"

Marshall gives him a look. "I'd expect you to pay rent to sleep in our bed, yes." It's that low voice again. How does someone talk about rent and make it sound like a seduction?

"Why? I mean, I can think of at least twenty-seven reasons _I_ know this is a terrible idea, but why don't you think this is a terrible idea? Why doesn't Simon?"

Marshall blinks at him. "Why don't Simon and I think our lives' dream is a terrible idea?"

"Why _me_? Why do you want me anywhere near this?"

And there it is. Dash, who has never been really wanted by anyone, doesn't think he meant to put it on the table quite so nakedly like this, but he's tired.

"You're our associate," Marshall says, without hesitation. "Why not?"

"Semi-associate," Dash corrects.

"Okay. So, do you want in?"

"You don't trust me, remember?"

"I remember. So, do you?"

"I'm...you're...I once..." Dash can't quite get it out. "There's a lot of bad blood between us, Teller."

"I haven't forgotten that, either."

"That's not exactly going to make for a cozy home life."

Marshall pulls Dash into his arms, rolling over until they're back to front, in the same spooning position Dash disrupted before. "And yet, I still want you in it. Weird, isn't it? Might be another thing that need investigating in Eerie. So what do you say? Are you in?"

Dash, who has at least once in his life come close to rewriting the universe, senses one of those moments on which entire personal destinies hinge.

Once again, he moves in Marshall's embrace until they're face-to-face, practically mouth to mouth.

He presses himself closer against the person he once thought he hated more than anybody else on the planet. "I'll think about it. Okay?"

"Good. That's all I can ask," Marshall say, punctuating that with a final, sleepy, "You've got a year." The question is gone from his eyes now and he closes them. After a few moments, his breathing steadies and he drifts off, leaving Dash alone with his thoughts.

Dash wants to go to sleep.

Instead, he's wondering if this is what it's like to really feel wanted. 

He's wondering if he can stand feeling this way all the time.

He already knows how he wants to answer—how he shouldn't and _can't_ answer—and wonders how he's going to keep that from Marshall and Simon.

He's got two more days, he realizes. Then Marshall goes back to school. Simon won't pry. If he can just hold out for two more days, that means he's got until Christmas to come up with a way to give them a reason to rescind this whole stupid offer.

And for that, Dash, in the spirit of the holiday, gives thanks.


End file.
